


parting is such sweet sorrow

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: fire & powder [19]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Blood, Cult of Kate, Found Family, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Introspection, Loneliness, M/M, Rimming, Ruthlessly Cherry-Picked Canon, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, new hobbies, serious conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27836329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: Leaving Jaskier alone at the base of the mountains is an uncomfortable sensation.Geralt settles into a new normal.(Rating and tags will update with second chapter - see notes.)
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: fire & powder [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698274
Comments: 68
Kudos: 253





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi posting this chapter has been the hardest thing i've done all week, my brain is Bad - please let me know if i missed any tags with this first chapter
> 
> second chapter is porn, nothing plot-relevant happens. i'll update the rating and the tags when i put that chapter up.

Leaving Jaskier alone at the base of the mountains is an uncomfortable sensation.

All the same, he does it, ignoring the instinct in his gut chanting _wrong, wrong, wrong._ It becomes a little easier when he’s working, to push the odd, niggling feeling of wrongness to the back of his mind. But he can’t work constantly – he does need sleep, even if he doesn’t need very much. And travel times are an unfortunate reality.

The instinct, the feeling of wrong, it doesn’t go away. But after two, maybe three weeks out on the Path – he hasn’t been keeping a very good track – it becomes easier to shove aside. 

He still finds himself wandering west, though, when he’s not careful. He’s not sure why. It feels much like when he ended up in Ard Carraigh last year, before the snows blocked the passes; it’s as if he floats away, and when he comes back, he’s somewhere he didn’t expect to be. So far, though, he’s not wandered more than a week, maybe a week and a half’s distance to the base of the Blue Mountains. He can’t be sure if that’s luck or coincidence.

* * *

The nights are still cold, this far north and this early into the spring. Geralt swears that the cold lingers longer each year – but his memory is long and mostly made up of faded, blurry glimpses of moments than anything else, so he can’t be certain of that. 

But the fact that it’s still cold remains. He builds a fire a bit bigger than he would normally, and ties Roach a bit closer to it, as well as throwing an extra blanket over her back. She nuzzles his head and chews on his hair in thanks, and he huffs, petting over the velvet of her nose before he settles in for the night. 

He dreams of Jaskier, and of Eskel. Of Yennefer, and Ciri, and home.

He wakes up well-rested, but feeling lonely.

* * *

It’s a rather nice day, sunny and approaching warm. He’s between towns, between contracts, and running low on potions, so he’s made camp early to forage for ingredients and work on restocking. He’s always preferred to make his potions in the wild, though he can’t deny that doing it in towns makes it significantly easier.

There’s a meadow and a stream nearby, and Geralt can hear Roach running and rolling around, snorting and whinnying, from where he’s knelt in front of a large, flat rock and a small cooking fire. He smiles down at his work as he listens to her, and is sufficiently distracted enough between careful measurements of herbs and carrier oils that he almost misses his medallion vibrating.

Almost.

He doesn’t have his swords nearby, just a dagger in his boot. He grabs it and stands, whirling around to look for what could have made his medallion react, and finds – a portal.

His hand goes slack enough he nearly drops the knife, and then Yennefer steps through, holding her own dagger and a glass vial, looking agitated.

“I – Yennefer?” he asks, fingers fumbling as the dagger nearly slips from his palm. He bends quickly to resheath it.

“I need your blood, and no, you can’t ask why.”

“...you have to know how ominous that sounds.”

“I do. But it’s important, and I haven’t got much time to waste.”

Looking at her makes his chest ache. She’s as beautiful as she always is, hair cascading around her shoulders in loose curls, dress black and shimmering in the dappled light. He wants to touch her. He wants to _hold_ her.

He has to apologize first. And she just said she doesn’t have much time.

“I….” He pauses, swallows, shakes his head. “Okay.”

She thrusts her dagger and the vial toward him, and he takes it. “How much do you need?”

“You could give me a drop or a flood, the amount is irrelevant. As long as it’s blood and it’s yours.”

He nods, turning and putting the uncorked vial and odd-shaped dagger down on the rock he’d been working on. Hands free, he rolls up one sleeve and then grabs a rag and some water to wipe at the skin of his forearm. “I assume you don’t want any dirt,” he murmurs, more of a thought spoken out loud than anything else.

“What I’ll be doing with it would neutralize any dirt, but yes, thank you for the consideration.”

He hums and picks up the dagger. Yennefer is suddenly at his side, reaching over and grabbing the vial herself. He nods at her when she looks down at him, then cuts his own arm with the dagger; the vial in her hand is there to catch the spill of blood before it can drop from his arm to the forest floor.

She holds it there for a moment, while Geralt sets down the dagger and grabs another rag. It’s easy to switch, as she pulls away, and tie the rag around the wound. It’s decently shallow, and will be healed within the afternoon, but it doesn’t hurt to staunch the bleeding all the same.

He stands and hands the dagger back to her. She takes it, but instead of whirling around and opening a portal to disappear into, she...hesitates.

“...Yen?”

She blinks, and then huffs, something like a smile curling her lips, and drops the dagger, just to reach out and yank Geralt close by the front of his shirt. “You’re an idiot,” she says, and kisses him.

He feels like he’s been struck by lightning, heat blooming in his gut, his chest, his _face._ His hands tremble where they’re hovering at her sides, but before he can make a decision – touch or don’t – she’s pulling back.

“I love you, and I’m sorry,” she says. “We’ll talk soon.”

She ducks down, grabs her dagger and wipes it clean on _his_ pants, then spins around and opens a portal just to practically leap through it. It snaps shut behind her with a _whoosh,_ his medallion buzzing for a split second before it’s still all over again.

He feels almost foolish. But all the same, the heat from her kiss remains.

* * *

Three days later, he finds himself travelling south without even thinking about it. 

He wonders if it has anything to do with whatever Yennefer did with his blood, but puts it out of his mind.

_I love you, and I’m sorry. We’ll talk soon._

The least he can do is trust her – both in that she wouldn’t use his blood for (horribly) nefarious purposes, and that he’ll see her again.

He turns Roach around on the road, despite her annoyed huffing, and heads back north once more.

* * *

He uses the journal Jaskier has gifted him, at first, for practical things.

When Jaskier had suggested drawing, Geralt had shot it down, but his statement of _I can’t draw_ was...well, not a _lie,_ but not the exact truth, either. He can... _sort of_ draw.

Mostly, he can draw herbs and flowers, other natural ingredients that go into potions, and he’s semi-decent at it, he supposes – he’s no great talent, surely, but he can sketch a recognizable Feainnewedd flower, for example. It’s something he was taught as a boy, after the Trials – they all were, though how much use the skill gets varies wildly between them. Vesemir, for example, can still draw true-to-life nearly any plant, as long as he’s seen it with his own eyes at least once. Lambert, meanwhile, can barely sketch anything recognizable. 

So, at the beginning, that’s what he uses the journal for. He sketches potion ingredients and labels them carefully so he can show Ciri when he returns to Kaer Morhen, and then, when he’s more or less sketched all of them that he can, he moves on to more practical things. Monster organs that sell well or have important uses, the markings that separate a normal baby griffin from a baby archgriffin, things like that. 

But even those things eventually run out, and he’s sort of at a loss.

He likes drawing.

He doesn’t know what else he can draw.

There’s nothing left that he can draw to show Ciri, or for Jaskier to study later. All the herbs have been documented – at least, the ones he can; there are others, but he’d need to see them again, and he’s not travelling south this year. Anything he can think of to sketch regarding monsters, he’s done.

And then he looks over, one night, seeing Roach dozing against a tree, lit by the last rays of the sun as it sets, and he figures – why not?  
  


* * *

Eventually, he’s sketched all of Roach that he can, and so he moves on once more. This time, he goes from memory alone; he tries those herbs, so some success, and then….

Well, then, he stops being practical.

After all, it’s a hobby. It doesn’t _have_ to be practical.

So he sketches the first thing that comes to mind: Jaskier’s hands. And then Jaskier’s eyes, the curve of his nose, his throat; he fills page after page with tiny little details of Jaskier, entirely from memory. It makes it feel less wrong, he thinks, to not be _with_ Jaskier this year.

When he thinks that, though, he starts to think of Eskel. He wonders if they’ve met up yet, and if not, where Eskel is, what he might be doing. He hopes that the towns that have been kind to him are equally kind to Eskel, with or without Jaskier there. 

And when he realizes that he misses Eskel – more than usual, more than he would if Jaskier were at _his_ side, he stops sketching Jaskier. Instead, he sketches Eskel’s shapes; his hands in the Signs, his smile, the curve of his shoulder, his hip.

He finds it...relaxing. Fulfilling. To just...sit, and _be,_ and sketch, even when what he’s sketching is objectively useless. And, he notices, he gets better with each passing day, with each page he fills. It’s nice, really, to see this evidence of a skill built upon, of improvement.

So he keeps doing it.

He hopes, whenever he sees Jaskier again, that the bard is proud of him. Or, if nothing else, likes the sketches. After all, they’re _his_ fault.

* * *

Two months on the Path pass, and Geralt decides he should return to Kaer Morhen, at least for a little while.

He’s felt restless for days now, and he keeps ending up going south, or west; he needs to return to the keep, to see Vesemir and Ciri. To reset himself, if nothing else.

And, if he’s honest, he does miss them, too. Ciri, especially; he wonders how she is, if she’s bored or enjoying herself or both in turns. He wonders if she’s still having nightmares, and if she is, he hopes that Coën and Vesemir are able to care for her, to comfort her.

But he finds that the thought makes him want to rush back, to comfort her himself, so he sets himself in the direction of the Blue Mountains.

* * *

He makes good time, and takes the supply path up for the first time in decades, entirely to avoid the Killer.

It may be spring, edging into summer now, but the Killer remains the Killer. Any chance to not have to traverse it, he’ll take. 

When he arrives, it’s afternoon, the sun just beginning to dip behind the mountains and casting long, large shadows with them. He sees that despite the light beginning to fade, Coën and Ciri are out in the courtyard sparring.

Even in the two months he’s been gone, she’s improved in leaps and bounds. It helps, too, that since the passes are clear, they’ve been able to get clothes that fit her properly; except for her long hair (which is tied up in a tight bun at the moment), she looks every bit a Witcher trainee. She’s even got a few fading bruises to prove it, too.

Geralt finds himself almost weak with relief, knowing that she’ll never have to experience the Trials. Knowing, too, that even if she is bruised, even if she does go to bed sore after a day of training, that she’ll never experience the level of pain Geralt did, that they all did. 

Ciri spots him first.

“Geralt! Roach!” she calls, dropping her stance and focus in the space of a breath. Geralt stops, bracing, and catches her when she barrels into his arms.

“Hello,” he says, grinning against her shoulder.

“Hi,” she says back, clinging to him with arms and legs both. “We missed you.”

“Oh really?” Geralt looks up to catch Coën’s gaze. “Did you?”

Coën shrugs one shoulder with a smirk. “It’ll be nice to spar against someone closer to my own age,” he says, casual, but when Geralt puts Ciri down the Griffin pulls him into a hug as well. 

* * *

“Are you going to leave, now?”

Ciri asks it after dinner one night, when Geralt has been back for about a week. She’s looking at Coën.

“What?” he asks, putting words to the confusion on his and Vesemir’s faces, probably Geralt’s, too.

“Well,” Ciri says, slowly, gaze flickering between the three of them from where she’s perched next to the hearth. “Jaskier explained, before winter was over, that Geralt gets restless when he’s not on the Path. I know Vesemir stays, but…. Certainly, you’d want to go back, too?”

Coën chuckles. “Princess,” he says, gently. Ciri frowns but doesn’t correct him – he’s the only one who can call her that. Geralt finds it terribly endearing. “I haven’t been out on the Path properly since your grandmother hired me to watch after you. I promise, I don’t feel any pressing need to go anywhere. Now, if Vesemir and Geralt feel like I should go, so that there’s at least one Witcher haunting Kaedwen while Geralt is here, I will. But no, otherwise, I won’t be leaving.”

He looks up to Vesemir and Geralt while he says it, a question in his eyes. Geralt shrugs, and Vesemir shakes his head – as good as a decision. 

“Oh,” Ciri says, and she sounds much less timid, now. “Okay.”

“Unless you were trying to get rid of me?” Coën teases.

Ciri colors. “No! Coën, I would never – ”

She’s interrupted by Coën’s laughter, loud and clear, and the flush on her face deepens. Geralt chuckles, too, and after a moment so does Vesemir. Ciri huffs and tosses her hair over her shoulder, crossing her arms.

“You’re all rude,” she pouts, but Geralt can see the smile fighting to turn her lips up, sparkling in her eyes.

* * *

They settle into a routine, similar to the same one they kept in the winter. Who trains Ciri rotates between the three of them, though Vesemir still keeps most of the sword training, and they all help with the repairs that can’t be done in the colder months. Ciri, even, though she’s more of a go-for that anything else, too small and entirely too human for any of them to want her up on the walls.

Not that that stops her from climbing them, mind.

“Lambert is a horrible influence,” Coën mutters, standing next to Geralt and squinting up at where Ciri stands on a battlement, waving down at them. “Can you even get _down?_ ” he shouts up to her.

Geralt snorts. “If she can’t, one of us is going to have to climb up and get her.”

“I vote you,” Coën says, “you’re her father. And you’ve been gone.”

Geralt tips his head in agreement, and Ciri, finished assessing the wall she just scaled, calls down, “Yeah, I’ll be fine!”

All the same, they remain where they are and watch her like a pair of hawks as she slowly climbs back down.

* * *

It’s a quiet day, the last of spring finally giving way to proper summer. Geralt is outside to enjoy the still-moderate heat, sharpening swords while he listens to Ciri chatter. Vesemir is trying to teach her – well, something, Geralt isn’t entirely sure, but the teen barely quiets often enough for the elder Witcher to get a word in edgewise.

The fact that he doesn’t try, that he indulges her, warms Geralt’s chest.

He’s distracted, though, when a black kestrel lands on a worn stone nearby, between where he’s sitting and where Vesemir and Ciri stand. It’s holding a little, rolled-up note. His medallion gives the faintest hum and then quiets, and he holds out his hand to it.

The bird flutters over, drops the note into his palm, and then disappears.

“What was that?” Ciri asks, apparently more observant than her chatter implies. 

“A note,” Geralt says. “The bird is – well, not quite a bird, I don’t think.”

“It looked like one,” Ciri says, and comes nearer to peer over Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Magic,” he says. “I never have checked if they’re real birds or not. Yennefer uses them to deliver messages.” He unrolls the note.

“Yennefer?” Ciri asks, sounding almost breathless.

Geralt blinks up at her. “Yes,” he says. “A...friend of mine. Sorceress.”

“I know her,” Ciri nods. “Or, well, no, I know _of_ her, but. What does it say?”

He looks back down to the note, the purple ink glinting in the sunlight as if it’s still wet. It’s short and to the point, like most of Yennefer’s correspondence. 

_I will be arriving at Kaer Morhen in two days’ time._

“She’s coming to visit,” he answers. “She’ll be here in two days.”

Vesemir comes to stand over him, too. “Has she agreed to teach her?” he asks, gesturing to Ciri.

Geralt shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. We haven’t spoken since the dragon hunt. ” A lie, but only technically – a fond insult, a kiss, and then a declaration of love and promise to talk hardly counts as actually having spoken to her. “Jaskier likely has by now, though."

“Well,” Vesemir says. “I suppose I’ll start making up her room, then. No need to greet her with dust and mice.”

* * *

As promised, Yennefer arrives two days later, likely through a portal if the jumping of Geralt’s medallion is to be trusted. Ciri isn’t even awake yet, sleeping the morning away to make up for a nightmare that kept her up half the night. 

“Lady Yennefer,” Vesemir greets, when she marches into the entrance hall, and Yennefer snorts indelicately in response.

“How many years have we known each other, Vesemir? I don’t call you _Witcher_ anymore. Do me the same favor and drop the title,” she says.

Vesemir chuckles. “You haven’t changed,” he says, and gives Geralt a quick, pointed look. “I’m glad.”

Yennefer hums, tipping her head. “Coën,” she greets as well, and the Griffin nods at her. Then she turns to Geralt, and there’s nothing particularly warm about her gaze, but its not cold, either. She’s not glaring at him.

“Geralt,” she says. “I assume we’ll be having that talk, then. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“I won’t be for too long,” he says, truthfully. “The Path will call eventually.”

At that, she smiles, and it’s genuine. “Yes, it will. Now, where’s this child surprise of yours?”

“Sleeping,” Geralt answers, but there’s a shriek that nearly drowns him out, and he turns just in time to see Ciri herself leaping down the stairs, clearly sleep-rumpled.

“Yennefer!” she shouts, and Yennefer looks alarmed, but opens her arms for the teen to run into, all the same.

“I didn’t think you knew me,” Yennefer murmurs, giving Geralt a questioning look. He shrugs.

“You’re in my dreams,” Ciri answers – news for the both of them, though apparently not Coën or Vesemir. “You and Geralt.”

“Oh.” Yennefer’s expression crumples for a moment, something Geralt cannot name, and then she’s smiling again. She pulls a little away from Ciri, but keeps her hands on the girl’s shoulder. “Let me look at you, then. I’ve not had the blessing of dreams to acquaint me.”

* * *

At one point, Yennefer sweeps Ciri off to her room to get to know her better, and leaves them all standing and looking after them.

“Well,” Vesemir says, matter-of-fact, “I hope you really did learn, after that talk with Jaskier, Geralt. I doubt she’ll cut you the same slack.”

Geralt snorts. “No, she won’t,” he agrees. But he hears Yennefer’s voice in his head, that day in the forest with his blood. _I love you, and I’m sorry._

Somehow, he doesn’t think their talk will be as hard as Vesemir expects it to be.

* * *

They don’t really make a decision of when to discuss it. Instead, Yennefer just follows him up to his room one night after dinner, and perches at the end of his bed with a pointed look and expectant air.

He pulls up a chair and sits in front of her.

“So Jaskier said that you’ve learned how to use your words,” she says, and it’s cool, but there’s a glint in her eyes that’s painfully familiar. Teasing.

Geralt chuckles, and it’s self-deprecating, but neither of them focus on it. 

“I’m trying,” he says, instead of saying _yes,_ because he’s not sure the answer will ever _be_ yes. 

“That’s an improvement.”

There’s pride in her voice, and Geralt fights a shudder. _She’ll be as proud of you for it as I am._ “Thank you,” he says. “I…. Don’t really know where to start, though, if I’m entirely honest.”

Saying the words, forcing them out past the panic trying to rise in his throat, is difficult. But he knows now that it’s better to do it, that letting them sit and fester will do nothing but lead to infection.

Yennefer hums and crosses her legs just to rest her arms on them, so she’s leaning forward, further into Geralt’s space. He can smell her hair from here, the lilac and gooseberry he’s become so adjusted to, but also woodfire, smoke, and dust from the library. 

“Then I’ll start,” she says. “I didn’t know, when I was looking into the wish, who Stregobor was to you.”

Geralt swallows. “I never told you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Yennefer nods. “But I am generally brighter than the average drowner, Geralt. I could have put two and two together, and I didn’t. I didn’t mean – or want – to rub him in your face like that. It wasn’t my intention, but my intention matters little knowing now how much that must have stung. And I am sorry for it.”

“...I was afraid,” Geralt blurts after a moment’s pause. Yennefer quirks a brow but doesn’t say anything, and he takes a second to calm his suddenly-tripping breathing. “When you said you were looking into the wish. It…. I was afraid that if you looked too deeply, you’d want to unravel it.”

“Oh? And if I had?”

He has to swallow again, averting his eyes to the ceiling. He was right in thinking that this wasn’t going to be as hard as Vesemir expected it, but it’s still _difficult,_ and there’s panic crawling up his throat at the thought that if he screws this up, there will be no further chance to rectify it. “...I didn’t want to lose you, Yen. _Don’t._ ”

There’s a pause where Yennefer shifts, and takes a slow, steady breath. Geralt can’t make himself look away from the ceiling, can barely spare the attention to the sounds themselves, trying so hard to keep his heart rate in check, to stop his hands from trembling.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, and her voice is gentle in a way he’s rarely ever heard it. “Look at me.”

It takes a moment to force himself to obey, as if his muscles have gone and abandoned him, but he manages it. When their gazes meet again, Yennefer’s is soft, and there’s something in her eyes Geralt is afraid to name, because he can’t be certain if it’s love, guilt, or pity.

He’s not terribly certain which would be better or worse, either.

“I had no intention of unraveling the wish,” Yennefer says softly, still in that gentle tone. “I have no intention of doing it now.”

“Oh,” Geralt chokes. “I – ”

“Hush for a moment.”

Geralt’s jaw snaps shut, and a small smile flickers over Yennefer’s face before it’s gone. “I have no desire nor plans to unravel the wish that binds us together, Geralt,” she repeats, “and more than that, even if I did, it is not a wish that makes me return to you. Nor you to me, I am sure.”

Embarrassingly, Geralt feels his eyes sting, feels his lip give the barest tremble. “Yen,” he murmurs, and Yennefer _smiles_ , gentle and kind, the smile he knows very few people have ever been lucky enough to see. 

“Come here, you buffoon,” she says. Geralt makes a choked noise and before he can make a decision of where to go, he’s sliding to his knees, undignified and weak. 

All the same, Yennefer reaches out to him. One hand wraps around the nape of his neck and the other cups his jaw.

“I am sorry,” she says. “I never meant to make you feel as if I was not a certainty in your life.”

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” Geralt blurts, turning his face into her palm. “I never meant any of it. Not a single word. And it’s not what I meant, it doesn’t _matter_ what I meant, I said it all the same, and I want to make it up to you. Please.”

Yennefer huffs a laugh, thumb stroking softly over the bridge of his nose, his cheekbone. “Geralt, darling,” she practically _coos_ his name, and he’s entirely unsure what he’s supposed to do with the warmth that blooms in his chest, so he does nothing. Instead, he presses his nose against her wrist and breathes, ignoring the way his chest is trembling. “In nearly a decade, I’ve heard you sincerely say the words _I’m sorry_ to a small orphan and your horse. Yet here you are, on your knees as if I would demand supplication from you, apologizing as if you may never have another chance.”

“I don’t,” Geralt mumbles, eyes squeezing shut. “You deserve better.”

“Maybe I do,” Yennefer agrees. “But what I do and don’t deserve has very little to do with it. I’ve chosen you, and Jaskier has told me all of the gory details of the last year, love. You’ve suffered enough. Come here.”

She tugs him forward, and he naturally slots between her legs, head resting on her thigh. She curls her fingers around his ear, uses the guiding hand to pet through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again, feeling suddenly exhausted.

“I know,” Yennefer says, calm. “And you’re forgiven.”

* * *

Yennefer’s eyes light up like Geralt’s never seen before when she’s with Ciri.

Without even realizing that there was still something missing, the final piece slots in, and he feels whole for the first time in months.

* * *

Geralt stays for another handful of days after he and Yennefer speak, and then the restless itch under his skin returns.

Ciri is the first to notice.

“You need to go back,” she says one night, very matter-of-fact.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Yennefer huffs.

“She’s right,” she says, gesturing at Geralt. “You’re fidgeting.”

Geralt frowns. He does want to return to the Path, it’s true; but at the same time, he doesn’t. He wants to remain here, rebuilding his relationship with Yennefer, teaching Ciri. 

Becoming a family, properly. Even if they are still missing a few pieces in presence.

“It’s okay,” Yennefer reassures him, after a long pause. She reaches across and presses her hand over his. 

Ciri makes a face, but doesn’t leave, and doesn’t bother to school the pleased little look on her face when the scowl has disappeared. Geralt flips his hand and threads his fingers through Yennefer’s, gratified when she just squeezes his hand and settles a little closer.

* * *

Despite his best attempts to pay attention, he still strays much further west than he means to. 

However, when he hears word of a heavily scarred Wolf Witcher haunting Murivel, he decides that it can’t hurt to stay for a few days before he turns himself back around.

Eskel looks tired, but when he catches Geralt’s scent, and his gaze quickly afterward, he looks thrilled.

“You’re not supposed to be this far west, Wolf,” he says gruffly, sliding in at Geralt’s table and all but trapping him in the corner. Despite the lack of easy escape routes, Geralt feels the tension in his shoulders slacken.

“Accident,” he says. “Lost track of what direction I was going.”

“...lost track?” Eskel asks, brow quirked.

Geralt shrugs. “Decades of ingrained routine,” he says, because it’s the best explanation he has. “Hard to kick.”

Eskel hums. “‘Spose it makes sense,” he nods. “On your way back soon?”

“Depends,” Geralt says, smirking into his ale. “Know if there’s any rooms available?”


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt plasters himself against Eskel as soon as the inn room door is shut. He feels the chuckle rumble through Eskel’s chest._
> 
> _“Miss me?” he asks._
> 
> _“Mhm.”_
> 
> Geralt and Eskel reconnect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unashamed, self-indulgent geralt/eskel porn. geralt needed the comfort ~~and so did i~~

Geralt plasters himself against Eskel as soon as the inn room door is shut. He feels the chuckle rumble through Eskel’s chest.

“Miss me?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

Eskel shucks his gloves and brings his hands up to thread through Geralt’s hair. “Everything okay?” he asks, thumbs rubbing gently at Geralt’s temples.

“Yeah.” He pushes his head into Eskel’s hands. “Just feels wrong to be alone on the Path this year, that’s all.”

“Hm.” Eskel works his fingers through Geralt’s hair slowly, untangling it with gentle pulls and scratching at his scalp with blunt fingernails. Geralt just rumbles, pressing into the attention as tension flees his shoulders, until he’s leaning on Eskel with most of his weight. He takes it easily, holds Geralt up as if he weighs nothing, and keeps petting through his hair until it’s tangle-free.

“Bed?” he asks, quietly.

Geralt grunts but nods, pressing a lingering kiss to Eskel’s throat before he forces himself to stand once more so he can start shucking off armor and clothes.

Eskel follows suit, and in almost no time at all, they’re both down to small clothes. “C’mere,” Eskel murmurs, gesturing, and settles on the bed. He’s sitting up at the head, legs splayed with one knee bent. Geralt’s doesn’t miss the pack that he dropped within reach of the mattress, but doesn’t mention it.

It’s easy to follow the silent direction. Geralt climbs up onto the bed, heedless of the way it creaks and sways, and settles between Eskel’s thighs, back to chest; Eskel’s arms slide around his waist, and he drops his head back against a solid shoulder, trying to ignore the still-new and tantalizing feeling of Eskel’s jewelry.

They’re quiet for a while, just enjoying one another’s company, until Eskel tips his head and starts to kiss at Geralt’s jaw. Geralt huffs a laugh but tilts his own head obligingly, sucking in a breath when teeth graze gently over a sensitive scar.

“Missed you, too,” Eskel murmurs after a moment. “Feel like I didn’t get to spend much time with you in winter.”

Geralt snorts softly. “You didn’t,” he says, and then quieter, “I’m sorry.”

Eskel pinches his hip, clearly meant to be a reprimand even though he pets the sting away a heartbeat later. Geralt swallows and turns his head to nose at Eskel’s ear.

“I’m here now?” he says, not really meant to be a question but sounding like one anyway. “And next winter will be better.” That’s a promise he’ll move mountains to keep, at this point.

“Hm.” Eskel presses a grin to Geralt’s shoulder and shifts his arms, pressing his palms flat against Geralt’s hips. Slowly, he slides his hands up, up, until he’s covering Geralt’s chest, and then he goes back down. When his fingers graze over Geralt’s stomach, he fiddles lightly with the jewelry through his navel.

Geralt doesn’t bother to bite down on his gasp. Prior to the piercing, it wasn’t a particularly sensitive place, but after it’s different, and he can practically hear Eskel filing that away for later in his head. 

“You look good,” Eskel murmurs, following it with a light nip to Geralt’s jaw. “Path easy so far?”

“Has been,” Geralt answers, reaching up and catching Eskel’s hands so he can bring them up and kiss his knuckles. “Went back up to the keep recently, though.”

“How’s Ciri?” 

Geralt smiles. “Good. Vesemir and Coën, too. And Yennefer.”

“Oh?”

“She arrived a week or so before I left.”

Eskel hums and runs his nose along Geralt’s throat, not subtle about the way he’s breathing in deep. “I assume everything went well.”

“Mhm.”

“Good.” Without any further preamble, Eskel’s hands leave his and shove pointedly at his smallclothes. Geralt laughs but lifts his hips, letting Eskel push them down to about mid thigh and then joins in trying to get them off, shifting awkwardly for a moment until he gets them down his calves and can just kick them off the bed from there.

“What about you?” he asks, reaching back to pluck at the small clothes still clinging to Eskel’s thighs. 

“Later,” Eskel says, and nibbles at Geralt’s ear, tongue careful around the piercing. His hands curve over Geralt’s thighs, grip not tight enough to hurt or bruise but still solid. He massages at the muscle and Geralt sighs, letting himself relax back as the pressure slowly makes his legs tip open wider. He feels the way Eskel smiles against his jaw.

It’s quiet again for a while, only disturbed slightly by Geralt’s sighs and gasps as Eskel’s hands begin to wander. First to his hips, then back to his belly where he teases at the new sensitivity, and then up to his nipples for a long, drawn-out moment. Geralt whines a little, at that, bracing his own hands on Eskel’s thighs to arch into the light touch. Eskel, for his part, chuckles.

“Pretty,” he murmurs softly, when he pets back over the belly button piercing. “Think you’ll let him give you more? Next winter?”

Geralt hums, noncommittal. “Think there’ll be any jewelry left after Lambert gets to him?”

Eskel chuckles again. “I’m sure something could be negotiated,” he says. “But fair.” One of his hands finally curls around his cock, giving him a slow, soft stroke before moving further down to cup his balls. 

He arches into the contact, but doesn’t beg, just lets Eskel go at his own pace. Though he does turn his head and nibble at Eskel’s ear, grinning when he feels the rumble of a cut-off growl in Eskel’s chest. 

“What do you want?” Eskel asks after a bit more gentle fondling, his free hand trailing up to tease Geralt’s nipples. 

“Mm. Just you,” Geralt answers. It’s the truth, really. He doesn’t care how this goes, just that he gets to spend at least one night wrapped around Eskel before they have to go back to the Path. 

“You have me,” Eskel says. “What else?”

Geralt’s thoughts are cut off when Eskel thumbs at the head of his cock, and instead of answering, he just moans, hips jerking toward Eskel’s hand. It earns him another chuckle before Eskel ducks down and sucks at his pulse point, the hint of teeth making Geralt shiver.

“Tell me what you want, Geralt.” The words are whispered right into his ear, the vibration of them and the feeling of Eskel’s lips moving making him shudder all over again.

“Just – you,” he repeats. “All of you. Nothing between us. Please?”

Eskel hums, an affirmative, but his hands go to Geralt’s waist and start to push him away. “Up, hands and knees,” he says, before Geralt can overthink it.

Geralt grunts and goes, shifting forward, but when he tries to turn, Eskel stops him. So he settles, on his hands and knees like Eskel said, facing the end of the bed.

“Good.” Eskel shifts around some, then taps at Geralt’s leg before grasping at his calf and lifting, a little. Geralt looking back at him questioningly, but lifts his leg as Eskel shifts some more. The process repeats with his other leg, and Geralt realizes that he’s now straddling Eskel’s legs. 

“C’mere,” Eskel murmurs. Geralt doesn’t quite understand what he means until Eskel’s hands are wrapping around his hips and pulling him  _ back, _ until his feet hit the headboard.

“Eskel?” he asks. Instead of getting a response, though, Eskel’s hands just slide from his hips to his ass, spreading his cheeks as he blows lightly over Geralt’s hole. “ _ Oh! _ ”

He thinks he hears another chuckle before Eskel is leaning forward and licking over his hole and it doesn’t matter anymore. “ _ Fuck. _ ”

Eskel goes slow, just broad, flat licks at first before he focuses down, the tip of his tongue flickering over the sensitive skin. Geralt’s arms shake where he’s trying to hold himself up, pleasure spiralling up his spine. He was already mostly hard from Eskel’s fondling but his cock is throbbing now, starting to leak onto the sheets and Eskel’s legs below. 

“Eskel,” he groans, finally surrendering and dropping to his elbows. It has the side effect of shoving his hips back, closer to Eskel’s face, and suddenly the teasing is over; Eskel points his tongue and pushes, until it sinks inside. Geralt makes a high, breathless noise, trembling all over at the sudden wash of heat at the feeling.

His cock jumps between his thighs when a finger worms in beside Eskel’s tongue, and he finds himself gripping at the sheets until his knuckles are white. “Ah, fuck, please.”

All he gets in response is a hum that vibrates clear up his spine, and he groans, burying his face into the sheets to muffle the sound. There’s the sound of seams tearing that they both pointedly ignore. 

“Look so good,” Eskel rumbles a handful of moments later, two fingers sunk into Geralt’s body and twisting. The friction of it is intense with nothing but spit to ease the way and Geralt finds himself whimpering with each thrust, pushing back against it desperately despite the almost-pain. “ _ Feel _ fucking amazing, Wolf.”

Geralt just grunts in reply, pushing his hips back again,  _ pointed, _ and Eskel laughs.

“Impatient,” he teases, but his fingers disappear and Geralt feels him shift, lifts his head enough to look back and see him leaning off the bed and grabbing for the pack. The little bottle he digs out isn’t much, but it'll be enough for tonight, and Geralt feels his thighs tremble in anticipation.

“Lay down,” Eskel murmurs when he returns, slick fingers petting over Geralt’s hole. “On your belly.”

He lifts up onto his hands again so he can move forward, then flops onto his belly, head next to the low footboard of the bed. Eskel shifts around behind him, lifting and dropping his legs again, and he just lets it happen, drifts for a moment on the simple pleasure of just  _ being  _ like this. He’s brought back to the surface by Eskel’s clean hand petting over his hair.

“Here,” he says, and reaches back to grab a pillow. Geralt takes it and shoves it under his head and neck, wrapping his arms around it for something to hold on to, and Eskel runs gentle fingers through his hair again before he’s sitting back again.

His fingers return, a little cold but still slick, and Geralt lets himself melt down into the bedding as two fingers sink back into him. Eskel makes a quiet, wordless little sound, something like praise, and quickly finishes opening him up, two fingers and then three, everything slick and frictionless with oil now. Geralt moans and growls into the pillow he’s clutching, heat flaring in his gut at the feeling of Eskel’s fingers spearing him open, the knowledge that he’s not in any position to do anything but  _ take  _ it.

Eskel is straddling his thighs, keeping him pressed to the bed, and while he could lift up onto his elbows the angle would be hell on his back and he’d still not have any leverage. It shudders through him, the almost-helplessness, and he turns his head to whine.

“Eskel,” he says. “Eskel.”

“Hm,” but it sounds like an agreement, and after a handful more thrusts, Eskel’s fingers disappear. Geralt doesn’t get a chance to really miss them before Eskel’s cock, slick and hot as a brand, is pressing between his cheeks.

He groans and tilts his hips the best he can. Eskel settles over him until they’re touching from shoulders to thighs, all of Geralt’s body trapped beneath Eskel’s. 

“Like this,” Eskel murmurs, right into his ear. His hands slide forward and tangle with Geralt’s just to keep pushing until they’re both grabbing the edge of the footboard. Geralt whimpers softly and flexes his fingers, prompting Eskel to thread them together more tightly and squeeze.

Geralt is trapped, pressed down into the bed with Eskel’s bulk and heat, and his cock throbs, drooling and leaving a sticky mess that makes the bedsheet cling to him, his cockhead and his belly. “ _ Eskel. _ ”

Eskel’s hips move, a slow, sensual roll that does nothing but grind his cock over Geralt’s hole. A tease, and a dirty one at that; Geralt can’t  _ move, _ doesn’t have the leverage or the space to push back, to goad him on. Eskel is calling all of the shots.

The sheer potency of that knowledge, the intimacy inherent in the fact that Geralt knows he  _ wants _ this, wants to be pinned and held, it all makes his head spin. “Eskel,  _ please. _ ”

A soft, broken chuckle is pressed behind his ear alongside a hot, open-mouthed kiss, and Eskel’s hips shift, lifting until the head of his cock rests at Geralt’s hole. With a little more room, Geralt can tilt his hips back to meet the angle, lift his leg just enough to the side to brace, and Eskel pushes in with a breathy little grunt that goes straight to Geralt’s cock.

Lying like this, pinned on his belly with his thighs mostly pressed together, Eskel feels  _ enormous,  _ like he can’t possibly fit. Geralt’s stomach tightens and his head spins as he pants and Eskel just keeps going, little rolls of his hips that slowly, slowly work his cock into Geralt’s ass.

“ _ Fuck, _ Geralt,” Eskel hisses, open-mouthed at panting against his throat. His fingers spasm and tighten, and Geralt meets it with a deliberate squeeze of his own fingers to match the clench of his ass. Eskel  _ whimpers. _

Eventually, some small eternity later, Eskel is all the way seated, hips pressed to Geralt’s ass. He shifts his leg so that Geralt is forced to straighten his once more, and the sudden tightness makes both of them gasp. Geralt is sure he should be choking on Eskel’s cock. 

“Love you,” Eskel whispers as his hips finally start to roll. It’s not thrusting, it’s not even really grinding, it’s almost like  _ dancing, _ except that Geralt swears he can feel his body rearranging to make space for Eskel’s cock in his gut. “Feel so godsdamned good,  _ fuck, _ Geralt.” Each gentle movement pulls Eskel’s cock out of him maybe an inch or two, if that, and the feeling of being so constantly full has Geralt biting into the pillow hard enough to tear it.

He doesn’t mind the feathers on his lips. “Eskel,  _ Eskel, _ fuck,” he pleads, stomach clenching in time with each slow push of Eskel’s hips. His cock is throbbing, caught between the bed and his belly, no way to find friction but so,  _ so _ fucking close even despite it. “ _ Oh, _ fuck,  _ please. _ ”

“I’ve got you, Wolf,” Eskel murmurs, tracing his tongue around the shell of Geralt’s ear before nibbling down the column of his neck. His movements get more pointed, still slow and sensual but harder, somehow, and the tension in Geralt’s gut draws bow-string tight. “Just like this, hm? Nothing but us.  _ Fuck, _ you feel incredible.”

Geralt whines, eyes rolling, and clenches down on Eskel’s cock just to hear Eskel’s breathing hitch, to feel how full he is. “Eskel,” he mumbles, teetering. “Please, please.”

“No need to beg, even though you do it so pretty,” Eskel soothes, and he shifts his leg. Geralt’s aware of the movement but can’t parse it, doesn’t know what it means, and then Eskel’s thrusts lengthen and the angle changes just slightly and Geralt  _ sobs _ at his orgasm snaps through him.

“ _ Eskel, _ ” he whimpers, and the world goes spinning for a long moment before it finally settles into soft, hazy dark, and he floats.

* * *

They split the next morning, though reluctantly. Geralt doesn’t want to leave Eskel’s side; he wants to stay, and follow him into Redania and Temeria until they find Jaskier. Wants to have the both of them together.

But he has to follow the Path, and they’ve already agreed upon where they’ll go. So he doesn’t complain, and neither does Eskel, though he can see the same reluctance in his brother’s eyes; they share a slow, lingering kiss before they leave the privacy of the inn room, and an equally lingering hug once Roach and Scorpion are saddled.

Geralt turns them northeast, and doesn’t let himself look back to see Eskel going the opposite direction.

He hopes, desperately and likely futilely, for an early winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiiii thought i was gonna post this on sunday and then i had absolutely no spoons lmao, sorry

**Author's Note:**

> i think nano wiped me out more than i though it did. but i got the 50k, all written in various f&p fics, so the next few fics are finished and will be going up regularly as we edit! i'm gonna keep posting to sundays and wednesdays, but not necessarily both - so some updates might be twice a week, some might be once. just depends on editing and my spoons.
> 
> i love you all! :D


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